The King's Company
by flaminglake
Summary: Halt is twenty-seven years old. He has lived on the coast of Clonmel for five years, detached from the rest of the world, without many a sparing thought for Araluen over the ocean, ruled by the vindictive King Morgarath. That is, until the rightful King Duncan and his company retreat to the coastal town.
1. Chapter 1

**The King's Company**

**Chapter 1**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Ranger's Apprentice**

**Hey everyone! So, I thought it was time for me to start a new chapter story. This one is back when Halt was around 27. Except it's an AU, sort of a 'what if', world. It's based around the idea that Halt never came to Araluen. Instead, he hid from Ferris living in an isolated house on the coast of hibernia. After Pritchard left, he hung up his ranger gear and decided not to go to Gallica, as he had originally planned. **

**Consequently, when Morgarath rebelled, Araluen was defeated. Morgarath became king. Duncan became an exile. The Ranger corps was never revitalised- in fact, it disbanded. Daniel didn't die protecting Halt; he scraped through the war. **

**That's the basic idea. I should probably warn you that the characters might seem OOC, although hopefully not too badly, because experiences make people who they are and they've had different experiences. I do think Bitten by Fate is the peak of my fanfiction days (200 reviews, my god) but I am really looking forward to getting into this one! Though, I'm starting with a much less defined vision of where it's going to go than I did with previous fanfictions. That is, I pretty much have no idea at all. I'll stop rambling now and present you with chapter one!**

They were the kind of people that he'd take one look at and instantly assess as trouble. He didn't mean this in any bad sense. Certainly, Halt was not averse to a little bit of trouble, as long as no one was hurt in the course of said trouble (or rather, no one that Halt _liked_ was hurt) and it didn't compromise his settlement.

His settlement was at a place that the locals called 'Warlock Cottage'. The name came from back in the old days- though they weren't that many years ago- when Pritchard was around and training Halt up to be a ranger. Or as the locals suspected, a sorceror, a wizard, a warlock. This was ridiculous, Halt thought. Yet even he had to admit there was a certain mysteriousness to the place. That was probably why he liked it so much.

It was up in the hills, a run-down little cottage as seen from the outside. The back wall was slanted, the porch had missing boards, the roof had a patchwork effect of multicoloured tiles. Perhaps once it had been a townhouse, but the community had moved down to the port and the forest had grown around it. Halt liked it. He liked the isolation and the tangle of vines that was his front gardern.

On bitter nights and morning frosts, there was a curl of smoke that appeared in the chimney. The townsfolk would see it spiralling above the forest and observe: 'there's someone at home at Warlock Cottage.' Indeed, at those times Halt was at home, with his feet propped up on the kitchen table and a mug of coffee in his hand.

He had a pantry that was always stocked, a range of comfy chairs around the hearth and a second fireplace in the bedroom. He had a rug covering the mismatching floorboard and he kept his pots and pans glistening clean. Nearby, a river ran down to the ocean from the hilltops- there was a small waterfall and a pool of fresh drinking water beneath.

During the day, the 'warlock' was never home. He had a horse in the run-down stable to match the run-down house (but it had clean straw and plenty of room) and he spent a lot of time riding through the forest. Halt knew the forest well by now. He'd trekked along the hilltops and ridges from one side of Clonmel to the other. He went camping on summer nights. He kept fit. Climbed trees.

He wore drab forest colours, to blend in if he needed to. He never wore his ranger cloak. It was useful, but he felt it wouldn't be right. After all, he wasn't an araluen ranger, he was an escapee prince. By the same token, the oakleaf Pritchard had given him was hidden at the bottom of his wadrobe. His archery was reserved for hunting. His knife skills were only useful for knocking some sense into the drunks at the local pub. There was even a sign the bartender put up. It read: one too many ousgeahs and you're at the warlock's mercy'.

It was routine, it was settled, it was _boring._ So Halt wasn't averse to trouble. He kept an eye on the goings on of the town. The innkeeper gave him a free breakfast there- he made excellent coffee (there you are sir warlock, with honey, just the way you like it). Halt always sat at the table in the corner, where he had his back to the wall. The tonwspeople knew this was the warlock's seat. There was always one chair at that table, and an ominous air, as though the warlock's presence forbade anyone from disturbing his routine.

Halt sipped his coffee and ate bacon and eggs for breakfast. He watched the couple making lovey-dovey faces at each other, oblivious to anyone else in the world. A travelling musician came down from his room for breakfast. There was a stir of interest. He'd played the night before and the inn had been alight with music and laughter. Except of course, for one stony faced inhabitant that sat alone in his corner.

"Enjoy your meal, sir Warlock?" The innkeeper asked anxiously, wringing his hands. It was the same thing every visit. Sometimes Halt wondered if the townspeople even knew his name- or rather, his undercover name for it was too risky to go by Halt. Too many people would make the connection.

"Yes," he said shortly.

"Well, that's good then," the innkeeper said. He twisted his fingers in a knot. There was an awkward pause.

Halt stood, pushed his chair back and nodded at his empty plate. Startled into action, the innkeeped grabbed the plate and trotted back to the safety of his counter with crisp orders for one of his staff to wash the dishes. The man reminded Halt of a praying mantis- all thin and knobbly with limbs flying out in all directions, and hands that jerked when he felt threatened.

He nodded to the other guests as he made his way to the door. He received polite nods back. No smiles. People rarely smiled at Halt. Perhaps that was because he never smiled at them. Sometimes they made this ghastly shape with their lips, and sometimes they grinned so hard, with such nervous energy, it must've hurt.

Halt strolled along the docks. The smell of fish rippled in the air, a smell that a forester like Halt tried to block his nose against, and the seafarers breathed in deep gulps. The wharfs were a bustle of activity, welcoming in new ships and sending out the old. Halt leaned on the railing- a thick rope tethered between poles- and stared out at the rolling ocean.

There was a little girl and her father dangling their legs over the side of the quay, rods in their hands. A ship's captain supervised the offloading of more stinky fish. The resdient warlock watched all this and more. He carried on, past where children climbed down the rocks to get to the strip of sand below, past the fishing vessels and the the damaged ship that had come into bay a week before. Halt walked up to the lighthouse. From here, he could see the layout of the town to his right- the crooked shipmasters homes by the docks, the regular townspeople that had settled at the base of the hill, and the richer clustered on the far right part way up the hill, where the trees had been cleared away, in what was considered the snobbish part of town, or not a apart of town at all.

To his left, was the long coastline of rocks and boulders, where women gathered periwinkles and dived for muscles on calmer days. Behind him the forested hills that he considered home and in front, away from the busy docks, was the white froth of waves, the swooping gulls and the tip of a ship on the horizen.

"Good morning Hugh." Halt glanced around at the master of the lighthouse, pleased that someone at least remember the name he'd had such trouble coming up with.

"Craig." He nodded a greeting. Craig ran the local lighthouse. He was an old man with eyes that wandered, and white hair that was in disarray. He always had a sombre expression. Perhaps it came from the lonely life he led, sitting by himself watching the sea, seperated from the rest of the townspeople and considered an oddity. That might also be why he was the only one not afraid of the warlock.

"How do you do," Craig said in his usual scratchy voice, tilting the brim of his hat.

"Fine," Halt said. "Same as ever. What about you?"

"Fine." Craig repeated the same words. "Same as ever." His head bobbed up and down, his old face as saddened as if he'd just attended a funeral. He joined Halt in watching the ship in the distance become closer and closer.

"Funny one that," Craig said as it came closer. Halt glanced at him, noting that the lighthouse keeper didn't look amused, concerned or even vaguelly interested.

"It looks a bit different than usual," Halt agreed. "It's not a fishing boat." It wasn't from Clonmel either. He'd memorised what those ships looked like. "Is it from another of the kingdoms, do you think?"

Craig peered from under the brim of his hat. He was an expert on boats and for all his odd quirks, no one would dispute that. "It's Araluen build," he said. "The shape of the mast see. Yes, it's from araluen. Good ship too."

"Traders," Halt mused to himself, and Craig nodded.

"Aye, traders."

"I might go have a look."

Criag tipped his hat at him again and shuffled back to his lighthouse. Halt made his way back down to the town. He kept one eye on the ocean, tracking the ships movement. He wasn't the only one. The baron's daughter was waiting to see if they bought silk or fineries, and the innkeepers wife wanted to know if they had pottery or if the traded in food, and the street beggers thought to try their luck at asking for the leftover rations that were no longer needed. More people began to emerge as they heard the word on the street.

So there was quite a party that greeted the ship when it anchored at the docks. The crew busied themselves lowering the ladder, while the townspeople trotted along the wharf to get a better view. Halt didn't, he waited unobtrusively by the railing.

The ship's captain spoke to the dock master, discussing arrangements. The crew began unloading crates and barrels, lowering them down the sides with rope. They had men on deck doing the lowering, and men below to catch the goods and fend off the crowd.

"Back with you!" one of them cried in a distinct araluen accent. Halt hadn't heard that accent since he sat in on his father's councils, and now it sounded strange, almost comic like, to his ear. Another man descended the ladder, this one dressed in a woollen coat and clothes almost as drab as Halt's. He pulled his coat around him when he touched the ground. Not fast enough to hide the sword at his belt. There was no stir of interest in the crowd- they must not have seen it.

Halt's eyes narrowed. The sword was enough to spark interest. He wanted to get closer, to mingle with the crowd, but he knew they would flinch in his presence. That would make him stand out. So he leaned on the railing and tried to look mildly curious, as any townsperson would. The beggers flocked around the trader with the sword. Crimson rushed to his cheeks and his arms lifted, as if to fend them off, though he didn't lay a hand on them. He might have been disturbed to see how young some of them were, as Halt was.

"Is it food you want?" the armed trader asked. "Hold on, I can get you some." Another trader had already started climbing down the ladder and he had to retreat as the first trader swarmed up again. Halt couldn't see what was happening on deck from his position. Two more traders descended. Halt watched carefully, but their cloaks covered if they had swords or not. The first returned with bread and salted meat that he tore up and gave to the beggers. They scampered away, satisfied with the pickings.

Four more traders came down the ladder. The last of these had a little girl with him- she couldn't have been more than five. He helped her down the ladder, lifting her into his arms. They both had the same blond hair and green eyes, so they were probably father and daughter, and they moved to stand with the other traders, looking around as if they'd never been more lost in their lives.

They were joined by two more, both of whom warranted some interest for different reasons. The tall blond woman was beautiful, and dressed in a tunic and tights which was uncommon around these parts. She had a serene, calm expression as she walked up and thanked the shipmaster. Following her lead, the blond man with the girl in his arms straightened his shoulders and paid the shipmaster.

Interesting, Halt thought. They weren't a part of the crew, as he had suspected. The last member of the odd party was the one that doubled the 'trouble' warnings that were going off in Halt's mind. The man had the same drab, woollen clothes as the others. He also had a cloak that was mottled with greens and browns and greys, and a longbow was slung over his shoulders. Halt knew that he must have a double knife scabbard.

This had great significance for Halt. Less so for the other hibernians, who had never heard of rangers. If it hadn't been for Pritchard, Halt would have dismissed the man as a simple forester, a yeoman, a peasant. He remembered what Pritchard had told him about the ranger corps: 'we're falling apart. There are few of us left that are true rangers. Nest year there will be even less." He spoke of Lord Morgarath and his monetary rewards for anyone that gave him the whereabouts of a ranger. He spoke of executions and of the new ranger corps- one entirely loyal to Morgarath, of corrupt and lazy nobles.

By now, Halt assumed the araluen rangers would be entirely Morgrath's nobles. He had to admit, when this ranger came closer he didn't look like a noble- he looked lean and tough and he moved with the finesse of one in excellent shape. And when the ranger glanced over, spotted the silent observer, his eyes were bright and spirited.

Halt moved his gaze back to the ocean. He felt the ranger studying him, and did his best to look like a casual townsperson.

"What now?" one of the araluens asked. The reply was murmured. Halt couldn't make out what it was. He had an assumption though. After all, there was only one inn for travellers to stay. It was an inn where Halt got a free meal, an inn that made excellent coffee, and Halt decided it would be a good evening for dinner there. He watched them as the ranger put his arm around the woman, and the little girl played with her father's beard, and the whole group of them began exploring the docks.

They were the kind of people that he'd take one look at and instantly assess as trouble. But Halt wasn't averse to a little trouble.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"We can't stay here, my lord." David was pacing up and down, running his hands through his short, brsitly hair. The other five soldiers has retired to their respective rooms. Crowley was lounging on one bed with his arm around Pauline, and Duncan on the other with his daughter on his lap.

"_Bob _please," Crowley hissed, stressing the name. "Remember where we are."

David glanced around. "Sorry...John." He scratched his cheek and stopped his pacing, to Crowley's relief. "I just can't get used to... you know...even after all these years."

Duncan smiled at him. "Me either," he confessed. "Bob." He had to grin at the last part. Crowley vented a frustrated sigh.

"Walls have ears," he reminded them. "No 'my lords', no discussing how you can't get used to your cover names. We're travellers. There'll be enough interest in us as it is." He had to resist the temptation to get up and peek out the door, to make sure no one was eavesdropping. The hibernian with the dark eyes that had watched them eat dinner had unsettled him.

Pauline stroked the top of his hand to calm him and he let his shoulders to relax. "But you're right," he added. "We can't stay here. We should head inland."

"I think," Pauline said softly, "that we can afford to stay a few days." The men turned to her, ready to explain why they had to move on, even though patronizing her in the past had led to dire consequences. But she nodded towards the princess, cuddled in her father's arms, head lolled against his chest and breathing deeply. "For Evanlyn's sake. What do you say, Christopher?"

Duncan stroked his daughters hair. He became alert when he realised the three of them were waiting and realised it was him that had been adressed. "Ah yes. I think a few days for Cass- _Evanlyn_ to rest would be appreciated." He and Pauline exchanged an understanding smile.

Crowley buried his face in his hands despairngly. "We really need to work on these undercover names," he murmured to himself. Pauline jogged him with her elbow.

"Walls have ears," she reminded him and when he looked up and saw the twinkle in her eye, he knew she was gently teasing him. It caused a slight flush to his cheeks. He cleared his throat.

"Fine, we'll stay for short time. I'd like to have a look around these hills anyway, to try and find a managable route. We'll book our rooms for a week; no more." Crowley stopped himself. After all, he wasn't the king. He wasn't in charge here, even if the others had deferred to him so far, particularly in the woods. With a guilty smile, he added, "if you all agree, that is."

Cassandra shifted and stirred. She mumbled a string of nonsense and nuzzled her face deeper into her father's embrace. Duncan loosened his hold to let her reposition herself before wrapping his arms around her again. "A week it is," he agreed.

David bit his lip. He paced another few paces, realised that he had started again, and stopped himself. Soft breaths from the princess floated like feathers, gentle and fluttering and peaceful. In contrast, David's cheeks were taunt and he shifted his jaw, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes.

"Bob," Crowley said quietly. "Relax. It's only a week." He forced a grin. Then he huffed and the grin became more genuine. He scratched his cheek and laughed, the tension draining from him. "We can't run forever," he reminded them. "If he finds us here in the week, well, maybe it's down to fate. In the meantime, I'm for bed. My lady?"

He rocked onto his feet and held out his hands for Pauline. She took them and allowed him to tug her off the matress. A shadow of the past crept upon them, just a flicker, of back when her hair cascaded down her back, smile bright and ambitious, her crisp couriers uniform glowing in the firelight. Before the war. Now she wore wool, green and brown in case they needed to fade away, and her hair was trimmed for convenience. But he saw her as she had been, and he felt strangely closerto her, as if they shared a secret of past days.

"I suppose so," David conceded. "Alright. I'll inform the men." He started to bow to the king, stopped himself, and gave a rueful smile.

"We'll head off to our room too," Pauline said. "Sleep well, Christopher, Bob, Evanlyn." A pause. Duncan and David both twitched and hastily bidded them goodnight. The codenames were a new thing. Or rather, these specific codenames were new. They'd been switching names around over the years, to throw off any potential stalkers. Crowley admitted that he'd become paranoid. Pauline often accused him of it. He suspected she was winding him up; it was doubtful that she meant to be critical when his awareness had saved them on so many occassions.

David retreated to speak to the soldiers. Crowley entwined his fingers with Pauline's and led her to the room they shared. It was sparse. There was a double bed, a wadrobe, a fireplace with three chairs. Pauline lit the fire and hummed a favourite tune to herself as she watched the flames. For a long time, Crowley stared out the window at the docks settling down for the night, and listened to the rush of the ocean against the coast. He thought with a sense of unease that the hibernian who had watched them through dinner had eyes just as dark and mysterious as the sea under the stars.

He slept that night and dreamt of being watched, watched, watched.

….

Creepers sagged from the trees, a giant web of snakes. They snagged on cloth, pulling, sucking, tearing, and frustration only made it worse. They had to be unpicked like undoing the seams, thread by thread. Abelard was accustomed to it. The shaggy horse stood in place while Halt freed them. He cut away a path with his saxe. Then they trekked on. It was slow progress. Later on, it opened out, and then he urged Abelard into a canter. They weaved between the trees.

Up and crevaces and the valleys, away from the salt. They rode to the high ridges, where the wind stirred without a warning. Halt drew the hood of his coat over his head, suppressing a shiver. Abelard had to tread carefully. There were potholes and cliffs that didn't forgive. It was easy to think in this open land, he could let his guard down. No, he could see the horizen, but the tussocky grass hid the traps that lay closer.

He rode along the crest of the ridge. A hawk spiralled beneath him, in the great gulp of air between the hilltops and the forest and the sea. The coastal town was a cluster of freckles on the rocks, and there was the lighthouse seperated off, and those tiny movements were people. Halt turned away from the edge, deeper in to the hills, towards Dun Kilty. He wouldn't go so far, of course. Instead he transgressed down into a valley. The grass became richer as he descended the slope, and daisies were the currency of nature.

The trees had been cleared from this valley. A dozen gravestones were aged and faded. Except one that was newer, and was a distance from the others. Halt reined in. Abelard tossed his head and snuffled. The hibernian patted his neck to soothe him and to let him know he'd seen the disturbance in the valley.

The ranger was mounted on a shaggy horse, similar to Abelard, which came as no surprise as Abelard was bred from a line of ranger horses and had been a gift from Pritchard. What was of more surprise, though perhaps it shouldn't have been, was that the ranger kept his horse still in front of the newest grave, his head bowed, seated in silence. A daisy bouquet had all too obviously been swiftly gathered and tossed in front of the grave.

For the first time in years, Halt was at a loss for what to do. He was torn between finding out why the ranger took such an interest in that particular grave, though he harboured a suspician, and fading away. His curiosity had not been quenched the night before: he'd overheard nothing that wasn't normal travellor talk.

In any event, the decision was made for him. The ranger glanced around. Underneath the shadow of his cowl, he grinned. It seemed strange to be cheerful in a graveyard. Maybe the ranger realised that too, because he sobered up almost immediately. Nevertheless, he had a smile in his voice when he said hello.

"Hello," Halt replied. He was surprised by how stiff and unwelcoming he sounded. Had it really been so long since he'd met a new, friendly face? It must have been; he didn't know what to say next. As it happened, he didn't need to. The ranger did it all for him.

"My name's John. I'm new here: a trader from Araluen. I think I saw you yesterday."

"Yes," Halt said shortly. "I was there." He realised the ranger was watching him expectantly. He couldn't figure out why. Then he remembered his manners- it brought him back to his days at court when his father rapped his knuckles if he was too antisocial and sullen while the barons spoke. "I'm caled Hugh."

"How do you do, Hugh," the ranger, John, if that was really his name, said. He giggled to himself. "It rymed," he observed. Halt raised an eyebrow. The ranger flushed. "Is this the town's local graveyard?" He asked it hurridly and must have realised as soon as it left his mouth what a dumb question it was. The crimson in his cheeks deepened. If he thought the cowl would hide it, he was sadly mistaken.

"What brings a trader to the graveyard?" Halt inquired. John hesitated a moment.

"I have- had- a friend here. A good friend." He glanced at the gravestone. "You've lived here long? You knew him?"

Halt made a pretence of reading the grave. As if he didn't know exaclty what it said. "Pritchard? Yes, I knew him." The ranger watched him keenly. "Everyone did. He was from Araluen."

"That's right," the ranger nodded. "And was he happy here?" He scratched his chin and cast a bothered glance at the bouquet. "I didn't see much of him after he moved, see, so I thought if there was a chance to, in a manner of speaking, catch up with an old friend then..." he trailed off.

"He was happy. He didn't speak much about Araluen." It was true. Pritchard had told him little about his life over the sea, apart from how he'd been framed for treason and banished from the country. "He was mysterious."

"I've heard that there's more than one mystery around here. There's a resident warlock, apparently." The ranger's eyes were sharp. He'd talked around, done his homework, Halt thought. "What do you think about that?"

Halt would be damned if he let 'John' have the advantage. He cast his gaze around the daisies and answered airily. "Oh, you know. People will always believe the unbelievable." He felt the piercing gaze wash over them, was sure it roamed over his longbow and his shaggy horse. It might have been paranoia, but he felt almost certain that Pritchard must have told another ranger about him, even though he promised he wouldn't. And he'd be damned if he let said ranger have the advantage. "You should know about that," he added casually, "since you're a ranger."

John flinched. It wasn't a small, subtle flinch. It was one that was impossible not to notice. His shoulders shuddered, his eyes flashed wide, his mouth dropped. He tensed in the saddle, looking at a complete loss. Hibernians weren't supposed to know what a ranger was. Halt couldn't help a breif amusement. He almost smiled. Almost. The ranger was comical, and evidently it was important that he keep his identity a secret. It would be too. Halt was now sure this was no pompous noble. This was a ranger of old. And that type of ranger weren't supposed to exist anymore, they'd probably be killed or banished like Pritchard.

Curiosity and sardonic humour won over his good sense. He had to say something more before he rode off. Halt cocked his head and adopted a mock surprised look. "Is something the matter?" he asked as the ranger recovered his dignity. Then he tacked on the name to the end of his sentence. "Crowley?"

If he'd flinched before, he came close to having a seizure now. It was all the answer Halt needed. This was the ranger that Pritchard had told him about. The other apprentice, who'd been trained before Pritchard was chased out of the country. John my foot, he thought, that'd teach the ranger to lie.

He tugged on the reins and wheeled Abelard away. Behind him, he heard hoofbeats and Abelard burst into a gallop up the hill. The ranger was hot on his heels. If it was a pursuit he wanted, it was a pursuit he was going to get. The valleys were as familiar to him as the lines on his hand; the potholes: his chapped and worn nails; the hills: his knuckles; and the faint veins were streams and rivers.

Abelard knew the country too. Even though he'd been cautious earlier, he knew the horse could handle it. They slowed over the ridges, but they were still close to a gallop and they flew over the flaky ground. Halt tossed a glance over his shoulder. The ranger's horse picked his way over the rocks carefully. He flagged behind. The ranger knew it too. Under his cowl, Crowley was fuming.

Halt led him over Harley Hill and into the thickest part of the forest. Here, even Abelard had to falter to a trot. The creepers reached for him and he had to pause to cut them away. The blackberry bushes and mossy trunks and brambles obscured a view a metre away. He could only tell that the ranger was still following him by listening to the hooftbeats. And an exclamation at the thicket.

It was a game of cat and mouse. Except the mouse was wily and cunning, it knew where the cheese was, it knew all the nooks and crannies, and it was enjoying taunting the cat. That and Halt wanted to know where he stood against a ranger. It had been years since his training, and he'd never met a ranger other than Pritchard. So far he was resolutely unimpressed. If they were all as expressive and easy to draw in as this one, it was no wonder the corps had gone to custard.

He wasn't about to lead the ranger to Warlock Cottage. Nor was he about to stick around and let himself be interrogated. Crowley seemed nice enough in their brief exchange. But it could be a facade. Pritchard had certainly had a spine of steel and was dead set on his ways. Halt didn't want to be questioned about how he could possibly know who Crowley was. He started to think his actions may not have been clever. With luck, the ranger would return to town and pass it off as Warlock's knowledge.

The trees started to throw him off pace. It was harder than he'd anticipated to keep track of how close Crowley was by just listening. Halt turned Abelard west and started up into the thinner forest towards Old Man Rock. This up on the ridge tops again, and he paused to let Abelard have a breather when he reached the top. He swept his gaze around, not pausing to admire the scenic view. He could see the hill that hosted Warlock Cottage, lower and still in the treeline. He didn't have a fire going, so there was no plume of smoke to give away its location.

Crowley broke free of the trees. Abelard was enjoying this game. He reared up on his hindlegs and swivelled around before setting off again.

"Halt!" Crowley called out. Halt's heart leapt to his throat and a lightening jolt shot through his body. He wondered where he'd gone wrong, where he'd lost his advantage. Then he realised the ranger was not calling out his name, was in fact calling for him to stop, and his confidence came back in leaps and bounds.

This carried on for a few hours. Halt and Abelard delighted in riding through the wild, and the extra twist of having to avoid someone added to this. It wasn't hard to avoid the ranger at that, and Halt wasn't worried. He started to test himself a bit more, lay a few false trails here and there. Around lunchtime, he paused for a bit to eat on a ridgetop, scrutionising the treeline so that he'd know when Crowley caught up to him. At the river, it was nerve wracking as the sound of flowing water obscured the hoofbeats. He let Abelard drink a little then carried on.

After a while, he began to tire of the game. He began to wonder if the ranger would ever give up the pursuit. The shadows were lengthening, and he was about ready to head home. Until Crowley returned to the town, he couldn't do anything about that. Halt frowned to himself. At this rate, he might still be out here come nightfall. He realised the ranger might never give up- he might have too much to lose. After all, Crowley didn't know Halt well at all. He didn't know that Halt wouldn't give his identity away to the shipmasters, was just acting on impulse and curiosity really, and that if Halt had not been so bored he might not have bothered giving away that he knew the ranger's real name.

Halt reined Abelard in and cocked his head, listening. The hoofbeats were behind him. He was about to move on, but he hesitated, listened some more, and sure enough the hoofbeats were fading. Before long, he could not hear them at all. He and Abelard trotted up to the next hilltop, where he had a view and watched from there for half an hour. When he had neither seen nor heard from the ranger, he knew Crowley had given up.

"Good work, boy," Halt said, smoothing his thumbs over Abelard's soft muzzle. "We've bested a ranger." Strange. He didn't feel proud. Just a tad disappointed. "Shall we head back?"

Abelard butted his shoulder. He took it as a yes and mounted up again. They rode back down the hill and through the forest. Halt's sharp eyes made out a tear of fabric. He plucked it off the twig and studied it. Could have been the ranger's. Probably it was.

There was a certain part of the forest that was more than familiar. It was homely. He saw the branches that twisted into a loop over an old poachers track. Abelard stepped through it, and Halt had to duck down. They emerged into the small clearing, a clear patch of ground with a two metre radius in front of his cottage. The tangle of vines crept in from the forest, his front garden.

He stopped short. On the porch was the ranger, with a map spread in front of him, making quick shorthand notes. Crowley paused and glanced up. "Rough terrain out there," he observed with a nod at the forest. "Thanks for showing me around." He made another quick note on the map. Somehow, he managed to make the scrawl of the quill seem smug. And his grin was even worse.


End file.
